Nightmares
by Beregond5
Summary: G1. Seventh part of the Patient H-18 series. He doesn't let his memories haunt him by day. At night though, when the lights go out, his memories catch up with him.


_There was a gentle hum in the distance. He thought it was strange, yet he shrugged it off as nothing worth worrying about. But then, the hum escalated to a deafening roar that shook everything around him, and before he had time to figure out what was going on, he felt, rather than heard, the explosion._

_At the next moment, he was on the floor, shards of glass surrounding him. He looked up at once, but the sight shocked him: half his room was gone, swept away and leaving nothing behind but melted iron bars and debris._

_Numbing confusion gripped tightly his spark. His logic circuits tried to reason that this couldn't be happening, that his optics were merely playing tricks on him; yet the roar didn't stop. And then, above that, another sound reached his audio receptors. _

_Cries of help… and horror._

_He had to get out. He had to see for himself what the meaning of it was. It was with that single thought in mind that he finally forced his limbs to comply and thus headed for the door. The moment that he stepped out on the road, he almost got knocked over by a pair of running Cybertronians that kept shouting unintelligibly. _

_He didn't have time to think about matters much, because it was then that a second explosion went off. He looked in its direction before he could help it, watching the fire and smoke rising up in the air, almost blocking the sky and darkening the city. But then, suddenly, he saw something else coming out of that blazing inferno. It flew so swiftly that he only managed to see a blur of colours; it was still enough to make him finally realise it._

_The city was under attack. _They_ were under attack._

_He didn't wonder who would do such a thing and why. He didn't have that kind of luxury and he knew it. Being unarmed, there was only one option left in him, and that was to run. So he ran, as fast as his feet could carry him. He didn't even notice the dozens of mechs that ran next to him, driven by the same primeval instinct of survival._

_A third explosion rang through the air. This time, he was horrified to see a building shake violently before it eventually crumbled to the ground. Dust filled the air and it soon reached him, blocking his vents and making him cough violently; until, unable to keep up, his running faltered and he collapsed on his knees. _

_The laserfire barely missed him, and he couldn't comprehend much anymore. His audio receptors rang too loudly for him to think clearly, but he tried not to let the treacherous feeling of panic take control of his actions. He scampered behind a pile of rumble and made himself as small as possible. _

_It was still not enough. The ground shook underneath him. The sound of weapons charging and firing made his cranial circuits ache and he had to hide his head in his arms. Hot shards rained around him, _burning _him, but he just bit his lip and didn't say a word – if he did, it would probably draw attention on himself._

_Another explosion went off just in front of him, making him flinch. A hand landed on his helm, touching it lightly, and his fingers wrapped around it by instinct. He looked up in a wish to see who was there, a friend or foe, but he only saw the slackened face of death, staring at him through empty optics._

-----------------

He woke up with a start, finding himself in darkness. He was surprised to register that he was curled on his side with his hands clenched into fists and, for a moment, he thought he was still back in that trench.

It wasn't so. There was no roar or screams. Only the sound of his breathing, coming out in gasps.

_Calm down… calm down…_

His breathing slowed, but he still couldn't shake off his sense of dread. He sat up and looked at his surroundings, making sure that he was indeed in the Ark, in his room. That the nightmare was over.

Then why did it come to haunt his dreams?

"Prowl? What is it?"

Prowl winced inwardly at the sound of the young, sleepy voice. He had hoped that Bluestreak would keep recharging, giving Prowl some time to regain his composure. Apparently, luck wasn't on the tactician's side tonight.

Even so, Prowl couldn't let the gunner see him like this; it wasn't an option. So he stubbornly averted his gaze, hoping that the darkness of the room would hide his face from the young gunner's scrutiny.

"Nothing. Just a dream," he said simply, keeping his tone calm. "Go back to sleep, Bluestreak."

Bluestreak didn't move, though. In fact, Prowl could feel the young one's optics locked on him.

"Bluestreak, I'm fine. Really."

The smooth sound of gears moving told Prowl that Bluestreak was getting out of his berth. A few moments later, there was the sharp click of a switch flicked on to his right, and light sprang up from a small lamp on Prowl's nightstand.

Prowl was startled to see Bluestreak sitting a mere few inches from him, still regarding him carefully, almost inquisitively.

Neither moved again nor tried to. Until, uncertain, Prowl opened his mouth to ask the gunner what he was doing.

He never got the chance. Bluestreak shook his head, a soft - albeit sad - smile tugging on his lips.

"Silly…"

There was no mockery or condescension in the young one's tone. Nevertheless, Prowl stared at the gunner dubiously.

"Bluestreak--?"

At the next instant, Bluestreak's arms wrapped around Prowl's neck, and the tactician caught himself wondering what he was supposed to do. He remained frozen, tension coursing through his every relay and his optics wide.

But then Bluestrak's voice sounded again, its gentle tone practically reverberating through the white and black chest-plate. "It's okay. It's okay, Prowl."

Finally, the tactician understood, and he could only berate himself for his foolishness. How could he hide from Bluestreak, when Bluestreak himself had been through a similar horror and got just as scarred? Prowl had practically lost count of all the nights he had to stay online by the gunner's side whenever the young one was caught up in his own share of nightmares. Now that Prowl was the vulnerable one, it was only natural that Bluestreak wanted to offer the same kind of comfort.

So why shouldn't _he_ accept it? Just this once?

Finally, his tension ebbed away. The black and white Datsun's arm wrapped around Bluestreak, returning the embrace hesitantly, almost apologetically; then his grip tightened so much that the gunner was like a lifeline which Prowl refused to let go.

It was ironic, come to think of it. Prowl had taken Bluestreak under his wing because it was the logical thing to do. The young one needed someone to look after him. However, logic had nothing to do with the fact that the tactician had come to consider the gunner's presence a solace to his _own _pained spark.

And now they would have to separate. Tomorrow, Prowl would leave for Moonbase I.

_Goodbye, Bluestreak._

_I'll miss you, little one._

**The End**


End file.
